


breaking bread

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [25]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Deepthroating, Fellcest - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans stays for breakfast.





	breaking bread

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

“Red?”

The question is quiet, but Red was sleeping shallow anyway. He cracks an eye open. It’s still dark out, the beginnings of dawn just starting to lighten it. Sans is in his arms, turned around to face him, his expression soft with sleep, shadows in his eyes. All his old emotional wounds were torn open last night. It’ll heal cleaner but for right now, it must hurt like a bitch.

Red doesn’t fight the impulse to kiss him, and Sans drags his tongue over Red’s closed teeth. He twines his arms around Red’s neck, pressing their bodies together; when Red opens for him, Sans slips his tongue into his mouth and kisses him deep and hungry.

So much for Red not getting laid tonight. He’s not complaining. He palms Sans’s hip and Sans makes a shaky noise into his mouth. Red murmurs, “What d’you need, sweetheart?”

It’s been a long night. To hell with turns. If Sans wants to bury himself in him, Red is more than happy to oblige.

“Fuck me,” Sans says, honest in the dark.

Red’s not gonna lie. There’s a feral satisfaction in the idea of coming inside of Sans, filling him with it until it spills down his thighs. He’s in that kind of mood, the LV beating hot and possessive in his marrow.

He drags Sans’s shorts down, and Sans lifts his hips to help even as he complicates matters by trying to pull Red’s shorts off at the same time. He’s still half-asleep, clumsy with it. Eventually, Red manages to get him to stop trying to help long enough to actually get things done. When he reaches between Sans’s legs, his magic’s formed and hot, but for all Sans’s desperation, he’s not wet.

Red can fix that.

He kisses Sans again, his mouth, his throat, his collarbone, his sternum, working his way down. He expects a protest, seeing as Sans has issues relaxing when he’s not sure Red’s getting anything out of it, but Sans lets Red roll him onto his back. Red rests one hand on Sans’s iliac crest, kneading the bone with his thumb, thinking of the way Sans said the words _marrow sample_ like he was struggling not to let his voice shake. It’s only his imagination that he feels a scar where the needle drove in, but the idea sends anger searing through him.

Sans doesn’t get that when he says there might be no way of killing Gaster, it isn’t necessarily a drawback. It means that Red doesn’t have to be careful when he takes Gaster apart piece by piece. Eyes, teeth, tongue, fingers...

Red sighs, long and pleased, and uses his other hand to open Sans up for him. He drags his tongue up Sans’s slit, barely delving in. Sans’s fingers dig into the back of his head, pulling Red tighter against him, unusually demanding, and Red purrs his approval. 

He gets Sans nice and wet with his spit, ignoring his clit for the moment to slip his tongue inside Sans’s cunt and taste the first bit of wetness slipping out of him. Sans lets out a shuddering breath, his hips twitching.

Red pulls back, licking Sans’s wetness off his teeth, and manhandles Sans’s legs up over his shoulders. Then he goes back to what he was doing, curling his tongue inside Sans to feel him tighten. Another little burst of slick anoints his tongue. Red doesn’t do this enough; he’s going to make that his new ambition, to spend as much time between Sans’s thighs as he can. He loves this, the taste and heat of it, the way he can feel Sans’s legs trembling as he tries to stay quiet.

When Red gets his tongue flat on Sans’s clit, slow soft licks, Sans huffs out a breath like he was punched. Red hums against him and Sans moans, a low, filthy noise. Red thinks of his brother on the couch in the living room, listening to this, and hopes like hell Edge is paying attention. Give him a little preview of what’s to come.

Ha.

Soon enough, Sans is grinding against his tongue as much as Red will let him, breathing in soft little pants. Teasing him isn’t the point tonight. Tonight Red is happy to give him what he wants, to _provide_. Sans won’t take his food but he will take this, Red’s mouth, his cock, his body, steady licks of his tongue pushing Sans higher until he shivers off the edge.

Fuck, now he’s good and wet, smeared on Red’s face and chin. Red presses kisses to his twitching clit and touches the entrance to Sans’s cunt with his fingertips just to be sure. Sans tries to fuck himself on Red’s fingers, getting nowhere. He’s drenched, making Red think of the way silver ran lazily off the curve of his soul and painted Edge’s hand.

Red extricates himself from Sans’s legs and moves back up to kiss him, letting Sans taste how sweet he is. They breathe unsteadily into each other’s mouths. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t want to remind Sans to keep up the 24/7 bullshit performance, not right now, not with him. He hitches one of Sans’s legs around his waist and pushes into him easy, swallowing the vulnerable noise Sans makes. 

The world doesn’t matter. It’s just them in this room, the darkness, the heat and wetness of Sans’s cunt, the way Sans’s fingers knot in his shirt as he buries his face in Red’s shoulder. Red moves in him to the accompaniment of Sans trying and failing to muffle his moans. Sans doesn’t move to rub himself off; he’s in no hurry to finish this. Good. Neither is Red.

 _Ours,_ Red thinks, angling his thrusts in a way that makes Sans clutch at his back. He doesn’t bother keeping his own voice down, and Sans doesn’t tell him to shut up. They take their time.

 _Ours,_ Red thinks as Sans starts to shudder under him, a slow-building climax that Red feels coming long before Sans finally cries out with it. Red growls, pressing his face to the curve of Sans’s throat, and lets himself be dragged over the edge right behind him.

Eventually, he resigns himself to the fact that he can’t stay like this forever, sprawled on top of Sans’s warm, slack body. He lifts his head and studies Sans’s face. Sans looks sated, his eyes closed and his mouth relaxed, already mostly asleep again. 

If Red knew what kind of trouble he’d be from the start, he’d have killed Sans before he had a chance to slide right under their guard like a knife between the ribs. The bitch of a thing is that Sans didn’t even do it on purpose; he’s as blindsided by this as Red is, the three of them stumbling around and tripping on the strings that tie them together and keep getting tighter.

Sans isn’t from their universe. He doesn’t know that _I’ll lay his dust at your feet_ is the kind of devotion he’s always saved for Edge. It’s an oath right out of some bullshit romance that Alphys would’ve swooned at. The words flowed out as naturally as blood from a cut.

Sans is in Edge’s collar now. It’s not like they weren’t keeping him anyway. No point agonizing about it. Red’s got a habit of holding onto the good things he finds with both hands, selfishly, greedily, unapologetically. This is nothing new.

Red kisses him and Sans looks up at him, blearily questioning.

“S’okay,” Red says. “Sleep.”

Sans hums and closes his eyes, agreeable for once. Apparently Red should get him to sleep over more often. He’s less of a pain in the ass. Red wouldn’t want it like this all the time, but Sans all soft-edged and welcoming suits him just fine.

He pulls out, moving off Sans, who mumbles his discontent and tries to follow him. Red’s not used to people turning to him for comfort, not since he pushed Edge away. It’s weirdly heady. He was planning to be vaguely decent and wipe the jizz off him before he fell asleep in it, but he gathers him in, probably holding on too tight. Too bad. Having Sans close is the only thing keeping him from going in the void and dragging Gaster out by his throat. Sans made the bargain with Edge; Red didn’t agree to jack shit. There’s a threat out there, hungry and waiting for their guards to drop, and it seethes at the back of Red’s brain like a fuse burning down.

That motherfucker came for Sans in Red’s house. Red’s going to make him bleed.

Sans burrows into his chest, not protesting the tightness of his grip. A moment later, he’s sleep-breathing. The truth really wore him the fuck out. Gaster, the collar--

If Red ever needs a laugh, he can remember the look on Edge’s face as Sans whipped the collar out. Just total vapor lock, Edge going 60 miles per hour on the fuel of pure protective anger and slamming face-first into a brick wall. It was hilarious.

(The memory of that dawning happiness in Edge’s eyes curls up behind Red’s ribs like something small and fragile, keeping him as warm as Sans in his arms. It’s good, seeing Edge get what he’s wanted since he laid eyes on Sans. Fuck knows he’s worked for it. Fuck knows he deserves it.)

Red reaches down, finding Sans’s wrist and the collar wrapped securely around it. It hums under his fingers, resonating with the collar on his own throat. Give it a couple more days and he’ll drop the idle suggestion that he should add his own intent to the collar, one more layer of barbed wire fence between Sans and Gaster. Might be interesting to see how that offer goes over.

Probably not well. Sans is careful to always keep one eye on the exit, and for good goddamn reason, as it turns out. Still, it’s worth a shot. Sans told him to ask for what he wants.

For now, he pets the soft leather of the collar and closes his eyes. He won’t sleep deeply; the LV won’t really let him until it burns off and recedes again. If Sans starts having another nightmare, Red’ll have time to get the hell out of the way. Stabby little bastard’s KR packs a mean punch. Red’s kind of impressed, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to shove Sans to the ground and sit on him if he threw another attack at Edge. He has limits.

He dozes. When he opens his eyes again, leaving pleasant dreams of blood sticky on his hands, there’s daylight coming through the windows. He can hear Edge moving around the house. Apparently Sans can too because he’s starting to grumble and stir. There’s a wet spot on Red’s shirt where he drooled in his sleep. Shit’s downright adorable.

When Sans finally opens his eyes, looking like he resents the hell out of the general existence of the sun, Red grins at him. “Morning, starshine. Kinda cuddly in your sleep, huh?”

“Fuck off.” Sans shifts and apparently remembers that his pants are off and that there’s jizz dried all over his pelvis. His vivid flashback to coming on Red’s dick (and not doing it quietly) is practically projected on his eyelights. He winces. “Shit.”

“Do you swear this much every morning or is this a special occasion?” Red asks. 

“Yeah, just continue fucking off, thanks.” Sans unpries himself from Red, grimacing down at the splatters of crimson painting his pubic arch and the inside of his femurs. “Probably should’ve stayed awake long enough to wipe that off last night.”

Red shrugs. “I like it. It’s like a Jackson Pollack.”

“The modern art isn’t crusted on _your_ pelvis, jackass,” Sans says.

Red gestures at the smears of blue Sans so generously left on him. “Wanna bet? Go take a shower. It’ll rinse off. You want some help scrubbing your back? We’ve got a detachable shower head with your name on it.”

“Nice try,” Sans says, retrieving his shorts and squirming into the pair Red let him borrow last night. “You already helped me plenty.”

It’s not quite a thank you. That’d come too close to acknowledging what happened last night. Red grins. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Suit yourself, kitten.”

“Yeah, how about we don’t bring yiffing into this,” Sans says. Red snorts, and Sans gives him a genuine grin before leaving the bedroom.

It’s no small thing, resisting the urge to follow him. To keep Sans in his sight. Nothing’s going to happen with the collar around his wrist, Red _knows_ , but rationality has nothing to do with this, just LV and anger. He’s not so far gone that he can’t shrug that instinct off along with the urge to drop in on Papyrus to make sure he’s okay too. Red showing up out of the blue to startle the hell out of a classroom of snot-nosed kids probably wouldn’t go over well with the queen. No, he’ll just go hang out in the kitchen with Edge smelling like last night’s fuck. Edge’s expression oughta be good for a laugh.

(Edge’s sense of smell is as sharp as his hearing, his senses cranked up to eleven. He used to get overwhelmed by it when he was a kid, wedging himself between Red and the corner of an alley and burying his head in his arms until the world stopped hurting.) 

(Back then, Red used to think that he’d do anything to get the kid a dark, quiet room to hide in for a while. If Gaster had shown up with an offer on one of those nights when Red was trying to hold Edge together, if he said it was only Red who was going to pay the price...)

Grudgingly, Red puts his pants back on. Both of them have seen everything he’s got, but Edge would bitch about hygiene and boundaries and whatever the fuck bullshit Red can’t be bothered with, and he’s already riding the fine edge of a LV rage blackout. Probably better not to reward Sans for staying the night by flipping his shit and trying to stab Edge over the breakfast table.

Red heads for the kitchen. It’s the opposite of a walk of shame. A stroll of accomplishment? A strut of rubbing it in? Whatever. He’ll workshop the exact name of it later. For now, he just does it, pausing to look at the sizable stack of completed paperwork perched on a couch cushion and a scarf in Frisk’s favorite colors that he’s pretty sure Edge hadn’t even started before last night.

Edge is at the kitchen counter, staring at the burbling coffeemaker like it contains the answer to life, the universe, and everything. He looks up when he hears Red, his eyes fixed on Red’s face, studying him with a frown.

“Hey, boss,” Red says, slouching against the doorframe. “Looks like you didn’t get much sleep. Busy getting an earful, huh?”

He forgets sometimes how goddamn fast Edge moves. Before he can blink, Edge has hauled him up by his shirt and pushed him against the doorframe, pinning him there with his full weight until Red’s ribs ache. Then Edge’s mouth is on his, demanding. Red resists because why not make him work for it, and Edge grabs him by the jaw, forcing his mouth open. 

Heat flares in Red, sharp like he hasn’t gotten laid in a week instead of a couple of hours. He can’t tell if Edge is genuinely this desperate, if he’s trying to burn off a little of Red’s LV, or both, and he doesn’t care. He goes for Edge’s zipper, and Edge just fucking steps back and _drops_ him. Red manages to catch himself but before he can ask what the fuck, Edge clamps a hand over his mouth. Red sure hopes he isn’t attached to those fingers.

“Quiet,” Edge says, his eyes burning as he looks down at Red. He’s not as untouched by this as he wants to pretend. “You have until the shower stops running.”

All at once, the anger shudders out of Red. It’s the sheer relief of knowing that Edge has got the leash. What he needs is for Edge to hold him down and really hurt him, but it’ll take the edge off until they’ve got the time.

Red nods and lets Edge push him to his knees. The kitchen tiles are cold and unforgiving, which just makes it better. Edge swats Red’s hands away from his zipper and pulls his dick out himself. Red can smell him, the hot, sweet musk of precome, and his mouth waters. 

Edge isn’t gentle, taking his mouth. Not careless, Edge has never been careless in his entire fucking life and particularly not when it comes to this, but he’s rough enough that Red almost chokes. He scrabbles at Edge’s hips for something to hold onto. He can’t breathe, his senses full of Edge, his head swimming with it. He whines around Edge’s dick and feels him shudder.

Cradling the back of Red’s head, Edge pulls Red forward onto his dick. Red makes a throat for him to fuck. Edge isn’t small. Red wants this, but his body fights it anyway, his throat convulsing and his eyes welling with tears as he struggles not to pull away. 

Edge takes the choice out of his hands, holding him in place with a grip like iron as he thrusts into Red’s mouth. He watches Red’s face, his eyes flicking up occasionally to look in the direction of the bathroom. Even with a slow flush rising in his face, his breath coming in huffs, he’s got this under control. He’ll stop on a dime if the shower turns off. 

Red wills Sans to stay where he is. He needs this, the hot ache in his throat and the overwhelming taste of Edge in his mouth. The fight slowly drains from his body, leaving him limp and warm. It won’t get him there, not like Edge hurting him would, but it’s good.

With painstaking care, Edge slides his hand down the curve of Red’s skull to his spine. He lays his warm hand on the collar, claiming it and him all at once, and Red garbles out a desperate noise. Edge hisses softly, his grip tightening. Normally, Edge would drag this out until Red was a total wreck, but they’re on a deadline here. He speeds up, chasing his own pleasure until he finally grunts and fills Red’s throat. Red swallows him down, clinging to Edge’s hips to keep himself upright.

Edge pulls out, his magic disappearing with a crackle before Red can try to follow him. Then he takes Red’s face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away tears. Distantly, over the drumming of his pulse in his temples and his own wet breathing, Red can hear the shower still running. Sans sure is taking his goddamn time in there.

“Better?” Edge asks, quiet.

Swallowing thickly, Red nods. His throat feels raw and used, his mouth is full of the taste of come, and the sharpest edge of his LV has dulled a little. He feels less like he’s about to jitter apart into shards and make somebody bleed. He didn’t realize how wound up he was until the tension went slack.

“Good,” Edge says. “Get up. Splash some water on your face.”

Washing the tears off his face is not going to make Red seem any less like he was just choking on a dick, especially to Sans, which Edge knows, judging from the rueful look in his eyes. But hey, whatever makes Edge feel better. An order’s an order. 

Wobbling like a baby deer, Red uses Edge’s hips to lever himself up to his feet and makes his way over to the kitchen sink. He splashes some cold water on his face, which clears his head a little, and dries off with his shirt. When he’s done, Edge hands him a mug of coffee and steers him towards the kitchen table. Red falls into a chair and watches as Edge turns back to the fridge, as flawlessly composed as Red is a wreck.

“Sans wants pancakes,” Red says, his voice a little rough. Edge gives him an amused look and Red tries to look as innocent as somebody who just got facefucked can. “With chocolate chips. You gonna tell him no when he’s all sad and shit?”

“How lucky he is that you’re here to advocate for him.” Edge starts pulling out the stuff for pancakes. “This has absolutely no nutritional value.”

“Restores HP just like anything else,” Red says.

“It wouldn’t kill either of you to eat a vegetable at some point in your lives.”

“It might. You wanna take that chance?”

Edge sets butter and syrup on the table. “It depends on how much you’re annoying me at the moment.”

The shower finally turns off. Red lets Edge have the last word, sipping his coffee. It’s perfect, hot and sweet, no rationing out sugar here. Edge knows exactly how he takes it. In more ways than one. This having two lovers thing is great.

The stray ambles in, stretching one back leg as she goes. Her legs aren’t quite in proportion to the rest of her, like she’s still growing into them. The fur on the top of her head is in a wet cowlick, the aftermath of Doomfanger’s grooming. She sniffs the air hopefully, seems to realize there isn’t meat on offer, and eats some of the cat food instead, looking at Edge resentfully like _I can’t believe you’re forcing me to eat kibble like some kind of animal._

Spoiled little thing. He likes her.

After a couple more minutes, longer than it should take to towel off and pull some clothes on, Sans cautiously appears in the doorway to the kitchen. Red can tell from that expression that Sans knew exactly what they were doing in here and let the shower run a while to give them time to finish up. Probably heard the thud when Edge first shoved Red against the doorframe. Sans takes Red in at a glance, his mouth quirking ruefully at one corner when Red just grins back because he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Red says, leaning towards him to offer a kiss so Sans can taste Edge on his tongue. He can see Sans actually think about it for a second, his eyes fixed on Red’s mouth, and then he glances at Edge’s back and gives a subtle shake of his head. Red shrugs. His loss.

Still keeping one eye on Edge, who is studiously melting butter in the pan so the pancakes don’t stick, Sans moves to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. It’s kinda nice to see him take free rein of their kitchen.

Without looking up, Edge pushes the bowl of sugar cubes across the counter in Sans’s direction. His grin almost shy, Sans says, “Thanks.”

Edge nods. It’s not until Sans has fixed up his coffee and is halfway to his seat that Edge asks abruptly, “How did you sleep?”

“Uh,” Sans says, probably remembering the part where he asked Red to fuck him in the middle of the night. Or maybe the part where he fell asleep holding Red’s hand. Hard to tell with Sans which he thinks he should apologize for. “Good. No nightmares. Red’s mattress is pretty comfortable.”

“Maybe next time we oughta try out the boss’s bed,” Red says. “That’s pretty comfy too.”

Sans gives him that look like he doesn’t appreciate Red fucking with his experiment again. Harsh. Red’s just introducing more variables into a closed system to see what happens. He’s helping. Then he glances at Edge, a considering look, and says casually, “Yeah, maybe next sleepover.”

There’s a little twitch like Edge starts to turn to look at him only to stop himself at the last second. Then he picks up the bowl of pancake batter and says, “I’m not sure you’re ready for a bed with actual sheets.”

“I’ll work my way up to it a little at a time,” Sans says.

“Good,” Edge says. “I don’t want you to go into some kind of shock from sleeping like a civilized person. Now please stop hovering in my peripheral vision and sit down.”

“Okee dokee,” Sans says, and sits down to drink his coffee.

“If I asked you to sit down, you woulda dawdled another twenty minutes,” Red says. “I feel jilted.”

“That’s because I don’t like you,” Sans says.

“Yeah, I could tell how much you didn’t like me last night,” Red says.

Sans hesitates with the coffee halfway to his mouth. It’s always hilarious to watch Sans, who fucks strangers in public bathrooms and sucks cock like it’s his goddamn vocation, get flustered. Red wonders if any of those dumb motherfuckers who didn’t want to keep him ever saw him blush like that. He doubts it. As much as Sans slid under their guard, they found their way under Sans’s. 

“I said never said the sex wasn’t good,” Sans says. “I just said you’re a pain in my ass.”

Edge snorts. Red props his chin in his hand and grins at Sans. “Oh, right. What was it you said again? That I’m good at taking care of people? I think ‘amazing’ was the exact word you used.”

“What?” Indignant, Edge turns from the stove to glare at him. “Did you plant a bug under the fucking bench?”

“Not my fault you used the same bench every day,” Red says. “You know better. Don’t burn my goddamn pancakes.”

“You are such an asshole,” Edge says irritably, but he flips the pancakes. 

“Eh, as many times as I found bugs in our house, I shoulda checked,” Sans says. “I knew he was a creepy bastard from the beginning.”

“Just keeping you on your toes, babe,” Red says. “Speaking of, I might have you take over listening to some of the audio I get from the embassy. Not Asgore--” Sans flinches just a little. It’s gonna be a goddamn mess the first time he gets called in for a judgment if he reacts like that to a name. “-- but a couple of the other politicians. That cool with you?”

“I dunno.” Sans winks. “Sounds like work.”

“I ain’t paying you to sit here and look pretty even if you’re good at it,” Red says.

“You’re not paying him at all,” Edge says. “It’s a discretionary fund from the security budget.”

“The boss isn’t paying you to sit here and look pretty, then,” Red says.

Edge clears his throat. “I’m not the head of security. Technically, Undyne and I both are paying you.”

“I’m not her type,” Sans says. “Guess I’ll have to actually do stuff, then. It’s a rough life, creeping on people’s conversations about what they want to order for lunch, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

Edge pulls a couple plates down from the cabinet and, a moment later, comes to the table. He puts the first plate of pancakes down directly in front of Red, and then sets the other in the middle of the table. His eyes are fixed on Red, since he’s trying so goddamn hard not to make eye contact with Sans, and Red pointedly rolls his eyes. Edge glares daggers at him, which loses some of its impact when it comes right after he offers Red pancakes and reaffirms the whole _you’re mine and I’d kill for you_ thing.

Still making eye contact, Red tears a piece of the pancake off with his bare hands and pops it in his mouth. Affronted, Edge says, “I was going to get you silverware, you fucking savage.”

With a shrug, Red chews, swallows and says, “It’s good.”

Call it part of the whole _try to maybe be less of an enormous asshole and save your aggro for the people who actually deserve it_ initiative. It’s like trying to turn rusty gears that haven’t moved for years, but the gears still move even if it’s hard, awkward work.

Edge’s expression softens like Red made some huge effort instead of just giving him a tidbit of praise. For a second, he starts to reach out to touch Red, stops when Red gives him a look like _don’t push your luck_ , and just says, “Use a fork. Fuck knows where your hands have been.”

“Pretty sure Sans knows,” Red says. “Pretty sure you know too.”

“Still.” Edge retrieves forks and knives and sets them on the table. Sans hasn’t taken the plate, his eyes moving from the pancakes to Edge and Red and then back again, his expression thoughtful. That usually means trouble. Whether it’s the fun kind or the kind where he disappears for a couple days remains to be seen. Apparently Edge agrees, because he asks, “Sans?”

“Looks great,” Sans says, flashing him that easy grin as he drags the plate towards himself.

“It’ll do for a start,” Edge says, pleased as punch. He returns to the stove. 

Sans is apparently a pancake purist, or maybe just not used to having spare niceties like syrup and butter around. Red’s Gaster was an ascetic who used to eat ramen without the flavor packets and thought Red taking sugar in his coffee was a sign of weak character; he doubts Sans’s doctor kept anything in the pantry that wasn’t ready-made or flavorless. Either way, Sans eats his pancakes as is, carving off a piece and putting it in his mouth. When he tastes it, his eyes close in pleasure. Whatever other issues Sans has, he appreciates his goddamn food.

Edge might be playing footsie with this not technically offering Sans food even if he’s totally offering Sans food thing of his, but it doesn’t keep him from staring, rapt, at Sans enjoying the food he gave him. Red asks, his voice a little rough, “You like it?”

Sans opens his eyes, takes in the expression on Red’s face, and grins like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and has decided that this morning is a good time to play with fire. “Yeah, it’s awesome.”

Clearly having a hard time not outright preening, Edge clears his throat and looks away. “It’s not very complicated. Child’s play, really. But thank you. Do you think I should add cinnamon? It goes well with the chocolate, although you wouldn’t think so.”

“Add whatever you want,” Sans says, making another pornographically satisfied face as he takes another bite. “When it tastes this good, you could add Drano and I’d give you a green light.”

“I’m already cooking for you,” Edge says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “The flattery isn’t necessary.”

“It really, really is,” Sans says.

Ducking his head, Edge pulls a few of the spices out of the cabinet.

Back before Sans started throwing wrenches in the works, Red and Edge used to idly talk about what food to offer him. Edge didn’t have access to excessively stocked human grocery stores back when he first offered Red food; he’d had to settle for a simple meal of mac and cheese from ingredients that he still paid too much for. He had grand schemes to make up for it by offering Sans elaborate meals until it became starkly obvious that anything complicated would make Sans uneasy. If he was going to accept an offer, it was going to be something simple and no pressure like burgers or... pancakes.

“Are you gonna just stare at me the whole time?” Sans asks Red, forking up another bite. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the idea. “Your food’s gonna get cold.”

“You realize this is a porn genre where we come from, right?” Red says. “The one where the hot twink accepts dinner, eats it real slow and moans a lot about how good it is, and then gets railed over the kitchen table?”

Judging from Sans’s expression, no, he had no fucking idea. He points his fork, loaded with pancake, at Red and says, “One, I have never been a hot twink in my life. Two, Edge didn’t offer me anything.”

Red snorts. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

Edge turns from the stove to give him another Look. Shame Red is mostly immune.

Sans drums his fingers on the mug, a nervous tick even a blind man could read, and then cranes his head back to look at Edge. “Uh, hey, speaking of? I’m sorry about last night, edgelord.”

“I told you, it’s fine,” Edge says. “It won’t even scar.”

“Not the part where I stabbed you.” Sans reconsiders. “I mean, yeah, the part where I stabbed you, but I was talking about offering you that juicebox. Kinda added insult to injury. I wasn’t thinking. My bad.”

“Insult?” Edge asks, stopping to stare at him.

“Y’know,” Sans says with an awkward shrug. “You’re not my bitch.”

Now Edge turns that stare on Red. “I thought you explained.”

“I _did_ explain,” Red says. “It’s not my fault he’s a lousy listener.”

“I’m pretty sure you said it’s telling somebody they’d be better off with you in charge,” Sans says. “And something about how every time I offered to give you guys a sandwich, I was trying to top you both. Hard to misinterpret that.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Edge pauses long enough to flip a pancake with more aggression than it deserves. “That isn’t what it means.”

Red wobbles his hand back and forth. “Semantics.”

“Maybe if you’re a disrespectful asshole, that’s what you mean by it,” Edge says. “It’s not an insult. It doesn’t mean you see them as weak.”

“Bullshit,” Red says. “You were in a collar. You know that’s exactly how a lot of people saw it.”

“And you know neither of us thought of it that way,” Edge says, biting the words off. “When I was in your collar, you would have murdered any idiot who called me weak.”

Red can’t exactly argue with that. At the time he was telling Sans this shit, it’d been funny to twist the knife just to watch his expression of mortified realization, but he didn’t know Sans had so many goddamn hangups. It probably set this whole process back a couple months. Whoops.

He shrugs, conceding the point. “Maybe. Besides, Sansy, you gave me a fucking juicebox and I didn’t get an apology.”

“That’s different,” Sans says.

Propping his chin on his hand, Red asks, “Why, because you don’t mind insulting me?”

“You don’t take the whole food thing seriously,” Sans says.

Red barks out a laugh. “Oh shit, is that what you’ve decided? Good to know.”

Sans leans back in his chair and just _looks_ at him. “You took the juicebox. You kinda demanded that second one. Made me put the straw in for you and everything.”

“Yep,” Red says simply.

Edge is watching them instead of the pancakes. It reminds Red of the way he looked at the cats last night, deciding whether to step in the middle of it to make sure everybody plays nice. Red’s not sure which of them he thinks is going to end up getting smacked in the face.

Maybe Sans is too exhausted from a long night of emotional bullshit to freak out and bolt. He considers Red a moment longer, then asks Edge, “That’s not a problem for you?”

“It would be if we were back in our universe and you were a stranger,” Edge says. “As it stands, no.”

“Whew. I was kinda worried we’d have to have a fight to the death for Red’s favor or something,” Sans says. “That’d be pretty anticlimactic after all this horse shit.”

“No, see, this is the part where we get a kiddie pool, fill it with warm oil and the two of you wrestle naked,” Red says. “It’s a really important tradition.”

“Thanks for the update on your id, buddy,” Sans says. The tilt of his grin is almost fond. “All right, color me curious. So since Red is full of shit as per usual, what does the whole offering food thing actually mean?”

“Holy fuck, look at you asking the right questions instead of making an ass out of you and umption,” Red says. “It’s like you’ve learned something.”

Amiably, Sans flips him off.

“It means that you’re willing to share scarce resources like food with them, even if that requires you go hungry yourself,” Edge says. “You want to protect and provide for them, even knowing they’re perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. You’ll give them a safe place to heal their wounds and then deal with the person that hurt them together. Their enemies are your enemies.”

Sans looks at Red. There’s a silent challenge in his eyes, like _yeah, motherfucker, I remember exactly what you said last night about laying Gaster’s dust at my feet_. Red returns that look without flinching and says, “Something like that.”

Might be that Sans’ll just grab his jacket and leave for the bus stop, and he’ll keep on going until he gets to fucking Siberia or something in case his emotions can’t follow him there. But Red’s made up his mind, and he’s not gonna play Edge’s bullshit games. If Sans hasn’t figured out that they’re ride or die now, Red’ll lay all the cards on the table for him.

Sans lets go of the fork, his hand drifting to the collar wrapped securely around his wrist. He idly strokes the leather the same way Red did this morning, the same way Sans can’t seem to stop touching Red’s collar now. Then he says, “I dunno how useful I’d be at dealing with anybody’s enemies, but that other stuff seems about right.”

If he wasn’t dust moldering in the carpet of New Home, the tyrant would probably say otherwise. But even Red’s not tactless enough to point that out. Instead he says, “S’okay. We’ve ganked most of them already ourselves, and the rest are stuck in a different universe. You’re off the hook for that part.”

Still rubbing the collar, Sans says, “So the community theater…”

“After we moved to Snowdin, I went back and shanked the director. Then me and the boss burned all the sets down,” Red says.

A few weeks ago, that would’ve sent Sans off on some judgy bullshit about how murder is bad, blah blah blah. Now he gives a slow, crooked smile, an echo of the way he looked when Red told him what Gaster’s experiments had really been about, and says, “Y’know, I never liked Our Town.”

“Fuck that shit,” Red agrees.

Edge, who wasn’t party to the mime/community theater discussion, doesn’t ask what the fuck they’re talking about. It’s pretty clear from context. Judging from his almost-smile, he’s remembering the way the guy screamed for the Guard that never came. Red wasn’t ten or almost-thirteen the first time he went on his knees, but fifteen was too goddamn young, and they’d found kids in that building who were barely out of stripes. Undyne didn’t look any more fondly on that shit than they did themselves.

“So,” Sans says, some of the violence unfortunately dying from his eyes as he changes the subject. “Basically, the food offering is to tell the person you want to take care of them or whatever. They accept the food if they’re cool with that. And then the collar, if there is one, is to tell everybody else you two made that deal?”

“Correct,” Edge says.

Sans drums his fingers on the cup again, thinking, and then says in a casual tone that’s almost convincing, “Guess we did it out of order.”

Edge goes very, very still. 

This is the best breakfast ever. Sans needs to sleep over all the time. Leaning forward in his seat, Red props his elbows on the table and grins at Sans. “Y’know what, babe? You’re absolutely right. We _did_ do it out of order. Don’t worry, he did it to me too.”

“I gave you something out of my inventory right before I gave you the collar, asshole,” Edge says, flustered. “Yes, fine, the formal food offering didn’t come until later, but--”

“You cad.” Red reaches out and takes Sans’s wrist, fondling the collar. Sans lets him, his grin bemused, as Red continues, “Didn’t even wine and dine us, just wham, bam, here’s your collar.” 

“I was trying to be respectful of boundaries, which is something you know nothing about,” Edge snaps. Must be hot by the stove, because his face is a little pink. He throws another pancake on the stack of them already waiting on a plate, then turns the oven off and just stands there, looking helplessly at the pancakes like they’re going to provide him with answers. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Just because you accepted the collar doesn’t mean you have to accept anything else. You’re not obligated to take food from me, or to… to welcome my advances.”

“Listen,” Sans says with surprising gentleness. “The only reason I learned that a collar a day keeps the doctor away is because I put it on _before_ I knew about that handy little trick.”

“I came to that conclusion at around one o’clock in the morning, yes,” Edge says tiredly. “I just don’t know why.”

“Okay. You want to know the reason I put it on?” Sans asks.

“Very much so,” Edge says.

Even if Sans is the one who offered honesty in the first place, he still hesitates a second and looks massively uncomfortable when he says, “Because I was hurting and scared as fuck and it made me feel like you were with me. I knew you had my back. It still hurt and sucked massively, but you were there if I needed you, which made things suck a little less.” 

“Oh,” Edge says, looking like Sans punched him in the sternum.

Sans meets Red’s eyes like a glancing blow and then looks away. “Uh, those last two sentences were the plural ‘you’. For the record. And if you say a goddamn thing about this ever again, Red, I’m gonna throw us both into traffic.”

Aww. Red grins crookedly, lifts Sans’s wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside, and then lets him go. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ll just hold it over your head until we die.”

“As long as you do it quietly.” Sans turns to Edge. “So, um. I finished off the pancakes. Still kinda hungry.”

Edge considers for a long moment. Red resigns himself to the fact that with all these dramatic pauses, those pancakes aren’t gonna be hot by the time they get to his plate. The price he pays for his brother being a drama queen. Then Edge asks, carefully watching Sans, “Would you like more?”

Sans grins, all warmth and welcome. If he has doubts, Red can’t see them on his face. “You read my mind, edgelord.”

Technically, since Red has been in Edge’s collar the longest, he should get first offer, but he doesn’t want to give Sans time to overthink. When Edge goes to put the pancakes down on his plate, he grabs Edge by the arm and redirects him to Sans’s plate instead. Edge gives him an offended look, the protocol nerd, and Red stares evenly back, trying to will him to hurry up and seal the fucking deal.

Looking amused, Sans drawls, “Is this a dick measuring contest, or are you trying to horn in on this food offering action? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Edge finally just lays the pancakes on Sans’s plate with painstaking exactitude, probably trying to make everything symmetrical, and nudges the plate gently towards Sans. Then he forks over the same amount for Red with slightly less ceremony, making sure he’s taken care of as he always does, making sure Red knows he won’t neglect him. Like Red didn’t already know.

“Thanks,” Sans says, smiling up at Edge. “Now sit down and eat something. You’re a growing boy.”

Red snorts. “Trust me, he doesn’t need to be any bigger.”

Edge gives him a quelling look, which is fine, since the point was distracting him from his embarrassingly obvious nervousness for a second. Then they both settle in to watch Sans cut off a piece of pancake. Trying and failing to look aloof, Edge says, “I added cinnamon, as I said, as well as cocoa and some cayenne pepper. It’d probably be better with a sauce. I--”

Sans takes a bite. His eyes close, and his expression is outright indecent even by Red’s standards. He’s never done that, not at Grillby’s or Toriel’s family dinners, not with takeout. Only Edge’s food. When he doesn’t say anything for a moment, blissed out, Edge, who hasn’t seen Sans when he’s getting fucked and can’t recognize the resemblance, asks warily, “Is it acceptable?”

“Sorry,” Sans says, startled into opening his eyes. “Heh. I was trying not to re-enact that porno that Red was talking about.”

“Too late,” Red says roughly. “Holy fuck, baby. Lemme take you back to bed.”

“Nope. I’m not leaving these fucking pancakes. Keep it in your pants.” Sans looks at Edge, who still looks a little nervous and hopeful at the same time, and softens. “I don’t think acceptable does it justice, buddy. I would cross oceans for these pancakes. These pancakes can have my hypothetical firstborn child.”

Edge relaxes a little. “They’re pancakes. I’m not sure it merits hyperbole.”

Sans shakes his head and takes another bite. That time, whether to reassure Edge or just because he’s lost all sense of shame, he makes a noise that’s nearly a purr. Edge stares at him, wide-eyed, gripping the fork like he’s going to have to fight off his libido with his bare fucking hands. Then he looks helplessly at Red.

Red shrugs and takes a bite of pancake. It is indeed a baller pancake. There’s enough intent in it to drop an elephant, burning sweet and familiar on Red’s tongue. He gives Edge a thumbs up, and Edge’s almost-smile breaks into one of those extremely rare _actual_ smiles. It’s good to see. This morning has been really tough on Red’s reputation as a hardass. He needs to murder someone soon to make up for it.

Not now, though. Now he settles in to eat, keeping his eyes on Sans. That way, Edge might not realize he’s smiling and won’t force himself to stop before Red freaks out.

“I saw a recipe online for a salted dulce de leche sauce to go with it,” Edge says, finally poking at his own food now that he knows they’ve both been fed. “I could make that, if you’d like.”

“Mm.” Sans takes a drink of coffee and composes himself a little. “I dunno. I think it’s pretty perfect as is. Maybe if I can ever con you into cooking for me again--”

“As many times as you want,” Edge says. “No conning necessary.”

Sans grins, some of the shadows chased out of his eyes now that he’s in their sunny kitchen, safe and well-fucked and well-fed. “But I’m so good at it. Better make me work for it, edgelord. Otherwise I’ll just get spoiled and insufferable.”

“That’s the idea, yes,” Edge says. “If you’re determined to be put to work, I’m sure my brother has ideas.”

“Damned right I do,” Red says, waggling his brows. “I can put him to work all night long.”

“I didn’t know the night lasted fifteen minutes around here,” Sans says, taking another bite. His eyes half-close like a cat in the sun. No moaning, sadly, but his pleasure is satisfying Red and Edge somewhere deep and instinctive and the smug bastard knows it. 

Red wants to pull him onto his lap and offer Sans a bite off his fork, but no, not now. He doesn’t actually want to piggyback off of Edge’s offer as a two for one deal. He’s a greedy son of a bitch like that. What he does is lean over and nuzzle Sans’s shoulder, marking his territory in the ways that he’s allowed. “Maybe you gotta stay over again and find out.”

Sans gives him a crooked grin. “I guess I could live with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Red thinks about torturing Gaster, Red has LV issues all over the place but more or less keeps them under control for now, discussion of Red trading sex for food when he was 15, discussion of the sexual exploitation of minors as young as 13, flashback to Red and Edge murdering one of Red's old clients in Underfell, what probably counts as a mild feeding kink
> 
> Sans has one (1) coping mechanism and goddamnit, he's gonna use it.


End file.
